Pelyn laid a hand on Methian’s shoulder and raised her other to stop Jakyn running out after his brothers and sisters.
‘You two I need with me at the barracks now. We’ve things to discuss in advance of the muster.’
Jakyn blushed scarlet. ‘My Arch Pelyn, I-’
‘Methian might die. I might die. I need you too. You might be young but they listen to you. They respect you. Think of this as your training for your next promotion. And stop pretending to be surprised. You know how good you are.’
The three of them headed back out onto the temple piazza. Pelyn could hear the shouts of mobs echoing from all parts. As usual, smoke smudged the skyline. There was the sound of breaking pottery and of clashing metal. Hoots and calls bounced from high walls. The sounds of the collapse of a society so surprisingly fragile, it took the breath away.
‘Pelyn, look.’
Methian was pointing towards the temple piazza. Pelyn feared seeing more flames but instead saw four columns of blue smoke funnelling into the air to be dispersed by rain and breeze. She gave a barking laugh.
‘The final piece of the plan,’ she said.
‘Is it?’ asked Methian.
‘When we have turned back the ships and captured or killed all the traitors, the people of Ysundeneth will want respected authority. It seems to me that Llyron, our blessed High Priest of Shorth, has just applied for that position. We’ve time to brief her before the muster if we hurry. Come on.’
Chapter 18
Never over-think warfare. The temple of Shorth was the only building in the piazza that had suffered no damage whatever, though smoke from the destroyed temple of Yniss had stained the walls. Shorth appeared even more magnificent than before, rising from the ashes surrounding it.
Pelyn walked quickly across the piazza, breasting through the groups of elves gathering in front of Shorth. The temple was fashioned in a likeness of Shorth himself lying prone and rose forty feet from the floor of the piazza. Its main entrance was set in the centre of the head and accessed by a colonnaded path across the sunken gardens. A flight of white marble steps led up to the grand wooden doors in front of which twenty torches stood in two rows. Before the doors stood a quartet of Senserii, the hooded Guardians of Shorth.
Dressed in plain grey, they represented the gentle herders of souls whose faces were blank to hide the eternal sorrow of their grim task. Each carried a bladed staff, ikari in the ancient tongue. In the scriptures the herders used these to take the heads from the Arakhe, the stealers of elven souls.
The ikari were a ceremonial accoutrement but any who had seen the ritual combat of the Senserii knew their capabilities. Katyett rated the Senserii, all of them elves born of mixed blood, as more deadly than the TaiGethen. It was a shame they were so few, numbering no more than fifteen at any time in observance of the scriptures.
Pelyn strode across the moat and nodded at the Senserii, who stepped aside to let her past. She felt her hopes rising. It was so normal inside. So comforting and welcoming. She felt herself relax. Shorth’s priests were about their tasks as always. Indeed they would be hard pressed with the number of souls needing succour and prayer for their passage to the halls of the ancients.
The centrepiece of the grand hall of the temple’s body was the magnificent raised altar and stairway to the throne of the high priest. The altar was carved from grey-veined marble. It was a circle more than twelve feet in diameter, edged with carvings of entwined hands and resting upon the petrified bole of a mighty banyan tree. Its surface was carved with the scriptures of the dead, which the priests intoned on festival days, and it was reached up a flight of four heavy wooden steps, worn by the footfalls of centuries.
From the opposite side of the altar, a steep stair rose up twenty feet to the intricate wooden throne of the high priest. The throne was carved with a lattice of the limbs and faces of the dead. It was the place from which the high priest led the chants that opened the pathways to Shorth’s embrace. His were the last pair of eyes to gaze upon a soul as it rose from the chains of the living earth.
The three Al-Arynaar bowed their heads before the altar and waited for an attendant to come to them. They were not long in waiting.
‘Pelyn. Your presence graces us.’
Pelyn turned to the tall thin figure dressed in dark grey robes with a hood over her head. Her hands reached out and Pelyn took them both.
‘The grace is all yours, Telian,’ said Pelyn. ‘And I am glad you are alive and unscathed. So many are not.’
Telian’s face was grim. ‘We evacuated everyone to the Hallows of Reclamation but could not stay there. We are needed here. Now more than ever. All of us have returned. Llyron too. The pillars of smoke will rise until this trouble is over. All must know they can come to us when their loved ones fall.’
‘Shorth’s majesty still holds sway but you can call on us if you need more security.’
Telian let go Pelyn’s hands and smiled. ‘I suspect you are stretched to breaking already. The fifteen are here. Now, is there something we can do for you? Souls needing comfort as they move to the embrace of Shorth?’
‘I need an audience with Llyron. If she will see us, we can move more quickly towards a solution to this crisis. We can bring the threads together again under respected authority. Llyron’s authority in the absence of so many others.’
Telian hesitated for a fraction. ‘Llyron does not normally grant personal audiences outside the days of observance.’
Pelyn spread her hands. ‘You know what I am going to say to that. Telian, I must speak with her. The city is torn. There is still a chance we can properly restore order. Surely she will want to hear me.’
Telian smiled. ‘I’m sure she will. Come with me. I cannot guarantee you audience but I’ll do what I can. So long as you’re sure this is what you want.’
‘Of course,’ said Pelyn, a little confused. ‘Why wouldn’t I be?’
‘Currently, certainty is everything. You should remember that.’
Pelyn chose not to respond. She wasn’t sure how to answer such a comment. It barely made sense. Instead, she gestured for Telian to lead on. The priest of Shorth moved off around to the right of the altar, paused to bow at the foot of the throne and headed towards the temple’s right arm.
Here, the priests and guests of the temple lived and worked when not required in the hall. They worked on cures for more ills than Pelyn knew existed, on new methods of surgery and of course on scriptures and services to better aid the travelling of souls to Shorth’s embrace.
It was the paradox of the Shorth devotee that while their primary role was succour for the dead and comfort for the grieving, the desire of each and every one of them was in prolonging life. Llyron had once joked that her key focus was on rendering herself unemployed. She was the only Ynissul in the order and had been a surprising appointment on the death of the Beethan incumbent four years before. Jarinn had known about her elevation even if he had not known about the many others that had raised the ire of Lorius.
Telian led them past pale-painted walls hung with tapestries depicting the many faces of Shorth’s glory, the peace and beauty of death and grand imaginings of the halls of the ancients. The arm of the temple was a far plainer affair. The work of Shorth required no distraction. Timber and stone walls were unadorned and doors to cells, chambers, record rooms and laboratories were simple timber and iron affairs.
The air was cool and the quiet of the temple was intensified by the energy of effort. Pelyn had never been down this arm, only the left, where bodies were brought for blessing and dressed for transport out to the hallows. The Chambers of Stillness would be full today.
Telian led them to a door almost at the end of the arm. A side door back into the piazza was the only other beyond this one.